Deacon Paul's Homilies

Growing up on the family dairy farm, there were many difficult things we experienced. Certainly, there was much hard, physical labor. But among the hardest things we experienced was caring for sick animals, and in particular, caring for cows that had been injured or lost muscle strength and were unable to get themselves up to a standing position. This typically would happen around the time of calving and might be due to a nerve injury during birth or mineral and metabolic imbalances that affected muscle strength. We called them “down cows”. What was so hard about dealing with down cows was really two things: one, the size of the animals — often 1000 lbs. or more — made it difficult, if not impossible, for us to help them physically if they had little or no muscle strength of their own. Secondly, and more profound, was the emotional burden that weighed upon us as their caregivers. We wanted them to get better and be back on their feet. We loved our animals, as all farmers do, and we wanted the best for them. Although we could help them with support therapies and medicine with help from our veterinarian and made sure they had feed and water at all times, it felt like there was only so much in our control. And the longer a cow was down, the less likely it would be that she would ever rise again. Some never did. That outcome happened frequently enough that it was a real possibility. And there is nothing that was more discouraging for us as farmers than a cow we could not help to get better. It cast a pall over our days and robbed us of hope and joy — really, robbing us of life — replacing them instead with weary discouragement. Late one Lent going into Holy Week, we had one of these down cows. It was a year not unlike this one, with the signs of spring beginning to emerge in early April. My father used to say the best thing we could do for a down cow was to get her out of the barn and out onto the earth in the fields or pasture, where there was no concrete and better footing. So we did, and we were able to get this cow out of the barn and into the hayfield behind the barn. There, day after day, we would take her food and water, administer medicine to her, and roll her over from side to side, to make sure she did not lose circulation in one hindquarter or another. If she seemed like she wanted to get up, we would try to get enough people to see if we could help her get up. Although she ate and drank, she did not get up, and as Holy Week wore on, it felt like she wasn’t going to. That discouragement set in as a constant droning undertone to everything we did throughout the day, seemingly getting louder with each passing day. Whether we were thinking about that down cow consciously or not, it seemed to affect our outlook and demeanor in everything we did. Late one night that week, my father, brother and I were finishing evening milking. It was after dark; we were at the far end of the barn, near the door going out to the hayfield. As I came out from between two cows holding the milking machine, I turned towards the open barn door and was shocked when I found myself face to face with the previously down cow, standing there, head poked in the barn door, chewing her cud! I shouted to my father, “Dad, she’s up!” We all ran over to the barn door, peering into the darkness of that night to see this risen cow. I will never forget what my father said next, turning to us and smiling: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.” In that instant our demeanor changed. The discouragement was gone and we were filled with joy and hope. There was a lightness in our step as we finished chores that night and the following days. We knew the end of the story, and this illness was not to end in death. Everything was going to be OK! I have to imagine our Passion and Easter experience on the farm those many years ago was something of what the disciples experienced when they encountered the empty tomb, the message of the angels, and ultimately the Risen Christ. I have to imagine that joy and hope that we felt that night was some small measure of the joy and hope that filled and animated them when they encountered the Risen Christ, whom they deeply loved and who deeply loved them. They finally knew the end of the story, and came to know that it did not end with death. Brothers and sisters, we too have the benefit of knowing the end of the story. We too know that it does not end in death, but in Christ triumphing over death, not only for himself, but also for us! It is this rising to new life that we celebrate in every Mass, in every Eucharist, in every Sacrament, and especially tonight, as we celebrate with our Elect their rising to new life with Christ in the waters of Baptism. So let us be filled with Easter joy and hope, as we should be, for we know the end of the story: He has Risen, He has Truly Risen, and we with Him!

A parent of a young child recently shared with me that their child asked a simple, yet profound question: “Why do we call it Good Friday?” A good question to consider, indeed. Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is betrayed by one of his disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is handed over to authorities and arrested and treated as a criminal? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is abandoned by His disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is denied by a disciple? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is scourged, brutally and bloodily tortured? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is painfully crowned, mocked and beaten? And why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is rejected by those he came to save, and put to death by crucifixion? In all of these sinful human acts, in what is done and what is failed to be done, there is nothing good. But there is a fundamental Good on this day in the sacrificial giving of God and the obedience of Christ, who despite the betrayal, abandonment and abuse, rejection, and torture to death, remains faithful to the Father and steadfast to us. God the Father gives, without holding back, his only begotten Son for our sake, providing the Sacrificial Lamb, once and for all. God, who in effect says to us, “I love you so much; see how much I love you, that I give the life of my only begotten Son that you might be healed, restored, redeemed, and brought to Eternal Life with us!” And Christ, God the Son, willingly and obediently accepts the rejection and suffering and sacrifice of His life: all of which is His Passion, all of which is the eternal sacrifice of the Father. He does not turn away but remains steadfast in his commitment to our salvation. It is Christ who, in effect, says to us, “I love you so much. Even though rejected and wounded, I do not turn away from you. I will never turn away from you, and I will not abandon you. Ever. I give you my body -- my flesh, my blood -- that you might have life, and have it more abundantly. I want you to live, truly live!” In the actions of God the Father and Jesus Christ is nothing more, and nothing less than this: so great a Love for us that they would go to these lengths, give so deeply, endure this suffering, make this final sacrifice once and for all of time, in the face of rejection, sin, and death. To triumph over rejection, sin and death. Two thousand years ago and here, today, for our sake, that we might be restored, redeemed, made whole, one with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and with each other. And that is why it is called Good Friday.

And Jesus wept. These three words are a pivot point in the Gospel passage we hear today. A pivot point between Jesus prophesying about the resuscitation of Lazarus, prophesying about the promise of eternal life for His believers, and testifying to His Divine nature as the Resurrection and the Life. A pivot point between Christ’s prophecy and testimony and Christ acting in His Divine nature as God the Son, calling Lazarus out of the sleep of death, out of the tomb, resuscitating him to life. And in that pivot point, in those three words — “And Jesus wept” — is the fullness of the humanity of Christ. For we profess a God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who is fully Divine and fully human. And what could be more human than to weep? Biblical scholars note that the word “wept,” translated from the original Greek term, in this Gospel means literally that he burst into tears; he is sobbing. It is not the same Greek term used to describe the weeping of Mary and Martha, which is translated as crying and wailing aloud. Jesus’ is a more quiet grief expressed by a profuse flowing of tears. In His incarnation Jesus took on flesh to become one of us, fully human — and there may be no more profound expression of Jesus’ humanity than his sobbing at the tomb of Lazarus. Psalm 116 tells us that “Dear in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his devoted one” (Ps 116:15). What more dear, more sincere way could God express his love for us than to weep for His beloved, to weep for us? There was a very popular 1970s television war comedy-drama called M*A*S*H . Most of us here today know and remember that television series well; some of us grew up with it. For those of you who have never heard of M*A*S*H , it was a series set in the 4077th M obile A rmy S urgical H ospital — hence M*A*S*H — operating in the early 1950s in Korea during the Korean War. It was humorous, punctuated with the quick verbal wit of Drs. Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper John McIntyre, and BJ Hunnicutt — and, at the same time, it was also poignant, laying bare the suffering of humanity — physically, emotionally, and spiritually — amidst the tragedy of war. In one episode, the 4077th receives a wounded soldier with a superficial head wound who has no dog tags. When asked what his identity is, the soldier responds that he is Jesus Christ, and continues to insist so in a calm manner to all who approach and ask him in the hospital ward.  The staff learn through Army intelligence that this man was a highly decorated bombardier named Captain Arnold Chandler, a farm boy from Idaho who had flown over 50 bombing missions in North Korea before his B-29 bomber was shot down. Believing this man might be deeply wounded psychologically, the 4077th doctors bring in the Army psychiatrist Major Sidney Freedman to evaluate him. In the poignant exchange between Dr. Freedman and the man, Sidney asks the man how long he has known his true identity, that of Arnold Chandler, and then goes on to give him a short synopsis of his life and military career. The man responds to a series of questions, stating that he is not Captain Chandler, that he is not from Idaho, and that he is not a bombardier and gently insists, “I am Christ the Lord.” Sidney, going along with the new identity, counters by saying, “But you died,” to which the man responds, “I rose”. Sidney replies, “That was a long time ago. Where have you been since then?” The man responds, “I live on in all [mankind].” Sidney then asks, “What are you doing here in an army hospital?” The man responds, “I’m Christ. Where should I be?” Countering the man’s question, Sidney asks further, “Should you be in the nose of a B-29, dropping bombs?” The man responds, “Bombs. On people?” At this, the expression on the man’s face becomes troubled. Sidney replies, “On the enemy,” to which the man responds, “I have no enemies. I love all men.” Sidney counters, asking “Even the North Koreans?” The man looks up, away from Sidney, tears welling in his eyes; now deeply troubled, he says, “They’re my children. Why would I hurt my children?” A tear runs down his cheek. And Jesus wept. Do you suppose Jesus Christ, our Resurrected and Ascended, fully Divine and still fully Human Lord, weeps today? Does He weep for his children who fight and destroy, who suffer, hurting and killing each other today? I suppose He does. Jesus is wounded and suffers in and through his Body, that is, all of us, through whom he lives on. All of us, made in the image and likeness of God. We, who are God’s handiwork. We, who are God’s creation. O Jesus, may your grief and weeping give us to know that the actions of humanity hurt you. May the well-spring of your tears be the living waters that extinguish our thirst for anger, animosity, revenge, and violence. May they be the waters that wash away our blindness, healing us, reviving us to life again. May the tears that well up from your eyes wash over us like the waters that flowed from your side upon the Cross. And may your tears fall upon us like the rains of the Great Flood, flow over us like the waters of baptism, and make an end of our vice and a new beginning of our virtue. And Jesus weeps.

There are two important, related, and relevant themes in the readings we hear today: the Light of Christ and the Call of Christ in our lives. The first reading from the prophet Isaiah, which we heard not long ago at our Christmas Masses, speaks and prophesies about the Light of the Messiah, Christ, who is to come into the world. The time at which Isaiah writes is the time of the Assyrian exile, when the northern areas of ancient Israel, including the lands of Naphtali and Zebulon, were invaded by the Assyrians who carried off many of the inhabitants into exile. This was the land and people of gloom and darkness that the prophet Isaiah writes about, and prophesies that from the land, in the midst of their gloom and darkness, a great Light would shine. We believe that Isaiah’s Messianic prophecy is fulfilled in Christ, who comes into the world as a Light to all nations, and comes as Light not only for the particular people of a particular time, but for all people (all nations) for all of time . We believe and we hope in Christ’s coming into the gloom and darkness of our lands and lives today . Christ the Light, Christ our Hope, breaks into our lives over and over and over again, in little and sometimes big ways, as with Him, we die to an old way of life of sin and rise, over and over, to a new life in Christ. It is Christ who, on Mt. Calvary, smashes the yoke and pole of sin and death, and the rod of the taskmaster who chains us to that yoke and pole. It is, as Bishop Robert Barron notes, Christ on Calvary who, “swallowed up all of our dysfunction in the ever great mercy of God.” It is His Light that Christ calls us into, to become one with. We hear of the first disciples’ call from Jesus in the Gospel passage, and Matthew reminds us of Isaiah’s prophecy of Christ as the Great Light. In this we may be reminded of another of Isaiah’s prophecies: So shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth; It shall not return to me empty, but shall do what pleases me, achieving the end for which I sent it. (Is 55:11) We see how, literally, Christ, the Word of God, calls the disciples. Christ’s call, the Divine Fisherman’s casted line, does not come back empty, does it? Repeatedly He casts, and repeatedly His Word lands fish. Christ too casts His line for us. He casts his line into the darkness and gloom of our world and lives today. He casts it, repeatedly, breaking into the day-to-day busyness, caught-up-in-our-own worldliness, until we notice his Light Line and Life Line, and respond to His call. His Word will not return to Him empty, but lead us to his Boat, to His Shore, and into His Light. Thanks be to God! St. John Henry Newman, a former Anglican priest, convert to Catholicism, and Cardinal of the Church in the 1800s, reflected eloquently on God’s Divine Call of us throughout our lives: For in truth we are not called once only, but many times; all though our life Christ is calling us. He called us first in Baptism; but afterwards also; whether we obey his voice or not, he graciously calls us still. If we fall from our Baptism, He calls us to repent; If we are striving to fulfill our calling, He calls us from grace to grace, and from holiness to holiness, while life is given us…we all are in course of calling, on and on, from one thing to another, having no resting place but mounting towards our eternal rest… Lead, Kindly Light St. John Henry Cardinal Newman Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, pride ruled my will; Remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still Will lead me on. O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

Isaiah prophesied: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone. (Is 9:1) John the Evangelist wrote: ...the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it…(Jn 1:5) The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world (Jn 1:9) And Jesus said: ...I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life…(Jn 8:12) Beginning with Isaiah’s prophecy of the Light of Emmanuel — God-with-us — some 2,800 years ago, through to Christ’s entry into this world of darkness in Bethlehem as the Child of Light, to his ministry of Light and Life, and racing through the millennia to us today throughout the world, to us here in St. Mary’s parish, to the family whose children were baptized at St. Mary’s this past weekend: The True Light of the World, the Dayspring from on high, the One Morning Star that never sets, the Word who existed in the beginning with God and who, from the beginning, was God, Jesus Christ the Light continually breaks into the darkness of our world and dark nights of our lives. At each Christmas, in the dark night of the world, we celebrate the daybreak of the Light of Christ coming into the world. At each Easter, we celebrate the breaking forth of the Light and Life of the Resurrected Christ from the darkness of the tomb of sin and death. And at each baptism, we recall and celebrate both, as we light the baptismal candle from the Paschal candle (that is, the Christ Candle) and say to the newly baptized, “Receive the Light of Christ.” We then give the parents and godparents, but frankly all of us , a solemn charge: This light is entrusted to you to be kept burning brightly. This child…has been enlightened by Christ. [They are] to walk always as a child of the light. We are to walk not only as children of God enlightened by Christ, but we are to walk also — each one of us — as bearers of Christ and His Light into the world. We can each bear a torch of the Christ Light as we walk with one another through the dark valleys of the night of each other’s lives, illuminating the darkened path for our sisters or brothers, walking with them as long as we can, until another bearer of Christ’s Light joins us to journey with them further. Never underestimate the brightness of Christ’s Light in the smallest of actions, a kind word or simple deed. In fact, St. Mother Teresa of Kolkata counselled that the smallest of our actions may be infused with the brightest light of love. She said: Don’t look for the big things, just do small things with great love…the smaller the thing, the greater must be our love. And never forget that a light appears as its brightest in the deepest dark of night. The Christ Light in the smallest of our actions may be the brightest light in the darkest part of the night of someone's life. My sisters and brothers, the Light of Christ has been entrusted to us to be kept burning brightly, not for ourselves alone, but for the life of the world. Let us walk with one another, sharing the Christ-Light entrusted to us with each other and with the world outside the walls of this Church!

Two weeks ago, on the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, we heard the Gospel account of Mary receiving the news of her pregnancy from the Angel Gabriel. Today’s Gospel passage tells us the story of Joseph receiving the same news. It's not a stretch to imagine, knowing this is not his child, that he might have been filled with a range of emotions as this news settles in, with these emotions giving way to a pervasive feeling that his world — and Mary's — have been irreparably changed. Perhaps, maybe more than likely, he wrestled with this news as a weight-settled-in the-pit-of-his-stomach nameless opponent in fitful sleep until, in a dream, the Angel of the Lord appeared and named that opponent, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid .” Fear — Joseph is wrestling with fear. Fear for himself. Fear for Mary. Fear of a changed and unknown future. Joseph's fear, and the comforting by the angel of the Lord, mirror Mary’s same fear and comforting by the Angel Gabriel when she received the same news. I don’t think it's a coincidence that the Church gives us bookend accounts of the Annunciation and this parallel comforting message from God to not be afraid twice in Advent, here in these days of waning light and nights of growing darkness. Fear is part of the human condition, and God’s continual assurance to not be afraid is a testament to God’s desire for us — to be free from the shackles of fear. The most common phrase throughout Scripture is, “Be not afraid.” When I was in formation to become a deacon, I was assigned to assist as a hospital chaplain at Albany Med for a few overnights with a deacon serving as the regular overnight chaplain. One of these nights came after a blistering hot day in August. As we began our shift that evening, we gathered in the pastoral care office at Albany Med to obtain the list of patients to visit, some requesting Communion and some simply requesting a visit from the chaplain. There was the name of a woman to visit; nothing noted other than a room number. As we approached the room where we were to find this woman, the deacon I was with remarked to me offhand, “This must be a pregnancy complication. The normal pregnancies are all on lower floors.” As we entered the dimly-lit room, I immediately sensed a pervasive weight in the room: things were not alright. Accentuating the atmosphere was the spectacular electrical storm raging outside that night, lightning filling the panoramic window of the maternity room. We were introduced to the woman on our list: a young mother, her husband, their new baby girl, their first child. Here in this room in Albany Med was a Holy Family. The new mother shared that she had complications in the pregnancy and that she had developed a massive blood clot and was going into surgery the following morning. The lightning bolts arcing across the sky were like the huge red dragon described in the Book of Revelation awaiting the woman to give birth to the child; each bolt was its tail, sweeping away the stars of the night sky. It seemed the dragon was raging at this Holy Family, and as evident on their faces, raging within this Holy Family. And the dragon’s name was Fear. When we told them that we had brought Communion and asked if they wanted to receive, they were grateful and responded they very much wanted to receive. It was clear at that moment that the Presence of Christ in the Eucharist was a gift of great consolation to them, as their fears gave way to tears of relief and release. They were not alone; Jesus, Emmanuel — God is with us — was with them in the midst of the storm in their life that night and calmed their sea of fear. God was with them, just like he was with Joseph and Mary those nights some two thousand-plus years ago when the Angels of the Lord said to both of them, “Do not be afraid.” God is with us. What are the dragon-storms of our lives threatening to devour us? Do we, like Joseph and Mary, need to hear God’s message, “Do not be afraid” ? Do we need to quiet the din of our lives in order to hear God’s message? Do we need to reconnect with the peaceful presence of God in our midst, accepting God’s message, and like Mary and Joseph, entrusting our fears to God, allowing Him to displace fear in the midst of our storms? Fear does not have the last word; Jesus Christ does, he who dispels the darkness. Emmanuel — God is with us. God is with us now , and God is faithfully with us forever .

Jesus Christ never leaves us without Hope. Recently I have become acquainted with a man who shared his story that, as a young man from an abusive and drug-addicted family, he found himself on the streets, homeless, fleeing the chaos of his home life. One Sunday morning he found himself, as a homeless person, sitting on a bench outside a Catholic church during Mass. As parishioners were coming out of the church after Mass, he encountered a couple who stopped, reached out and talked with him. Noticing the homeless man did not have a coat, the husband immediately gave him his coat before they went on their way. The homeless man found himself wondering — what made that couple different from all the others he had encountered in his walk as a homeless person? As time went on, he got into a stable situation, landed a job, got married and had a family of his own, and that question in his heart from that day led him to become a Catholic himself. Today he and his wife are discerning his call to a vocation to ordained ministry as a Deacon in the Church. Jesus Christ never leaves us without Hope. The scripture and Gospel passages today contain a lot of disconcerting, and perhaps even scary, imagery regarding the end times: blazing fires, destruction of the Temple, wars, insurrections, deceit, persecutions, and death. But notice how these prophecies conclude: ” But for you who fear my name, there will arise the sun of justice with its healing rays” “...but not a hair on your head will be destroyed. By your perseverance you will secure your lives." Jesus Christ never leaves us without Hope. How fitting that we should be reminded of Hope, about Hope in the midst of the tribulations of our lives and world, as we move towards the end of this liturgical year, the Jubilee Year of Hope . It is this same Hope that Pope Leo XIV draws our attention to on this Sunday, the World Day of the Poor in his message for the day, entitled “You are my Hope.” In this message Pope Leo instructs us on the relationship between the poor, ourselves, and Hope, and of our collective responsibility to Hope. Here is what Pope Leo writes: The poor are not a distraction for the Church, but our beloved brothers and sisters, for by their lives, their words and their wisdom, they put us in contact with the truth of the Gospel. [They] can be witnesses to a strong and steadfast hope, precisely because they embody it in the midst of uncertainty, poverty, instability and marginalization. They cannot rely on the security of power and possessions; … Their hope must necessarily be sought elsewhere. God took on their poverty in order to enrich us through their voices, their stories and their faces. Every form of poverty, without exception, calls us to experience the Gospel concretely and to offer effective signs of hope. (1) Pope Leo reminds us that in encountering the poor among us, we encounter hope in Christ the Servant who washes both our feet. In serving our poor brothers and sisters — poor in whatever means — serving them in acts of charity and kindness, we find ourselves in the presence of Christ who shows us true Hope, Faith and Charity. We too are fed , washed and healed while we do the same for our brothers and sisters. While we are fed at this table of Charity, Pope Leo reminds us that we have a responsibility to serve at it. Hope is born of faith, which nourishes and sustains it on the foundation of charity, the mother of all virtues. All of us need charity, here and now. Charity is not just a promise; it is a present reality to be embraced with joy and responsibility… to offer new signs of hope that will bear witness to Christian charity… (1) We are called to the responsibility of charity: it is not an optional thing! Each act of charity is an act of kindness, compassion, mercy. Sometimes they are big acts; and sometimes they are small acts of charity in support of a big act, like contributing time or goods to our food pantry or community Thanksgiving dinner, the Giving Tree or Angel Tree party. And sometimes they are small acts of reaching out, listening, or encouragement. We can all offer those acts of charity and all of us need that charity. Do not give into the temptation that even the simplest act of charity, of kindness, is not of great value! Giving into that temptation leads us to indifference and inaction, which Pope Leo teaches “robs our [brothers and sisters] of hope.” Kindness matters! Never underestimate that your kindness, your charity, can be a lifeline of hope and light in what might be a dark moment or period in another person's life. Each little act of charity is a stone which we build into the wall of a great temple of Hope, the cornerstone and master-builder of which is Christ himself. A temple of Hope built of living stones which beckons the world into communion with the One who is Eternal Hope, Light and Life. As Jesus Christ gives us Hope, let us persevere in acts of charity and kindness, despite the tribulations of all going on around us and in us, and share that Hope with one another. (1) Pope Leo XIV. Message of the Holy Father for the 9th World Day of the Poor: You are my Hope

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Language scholars who have studied the origins of the word mammon in Hebrew and Aramaic have found clear association with words meaning wealth, riches, money, profit and possessions. But there is also evidence that one of the root words for mammon also means “that in which one trusts.” On all of our US currency — each coin and paper bill — is a simple (and, I suspect, often overlooked) phrase: “In God we trust.” This phrase was added during the Cold War to distinguish our currency, and nation, from that of the atheist Soviet Union. On each of our denominations of currency, both coins and paper bills, we have this simple reminder in whom we should be placing our trust in — God — and not what we should be placing it in: the fruit of our human activity, especially money. It is a poignant reminder to us today in light of the Gospel passage we hear and our current experience. This reminder begs us to ask two questions of ourselves and collectively as a country and society: Do we trust in God first? Always, everywhere, in everything? Or do we place our trust first in small-“g” god, or gods of human origin? In answering those questions, we might ask ourselves, what do our actions say about whether we place our trust first in God, or in humans? Where are we spending our time and treasure? This past month has brought us yet more tragic and traumatic reminders of our society’s misplaced trust. The recent spate of wounding and taking of innocent lives through gun violence in service of an ideology of retribution is just the most recent in a continuing human saga of such behavior, behavior that places trust in leading with human action to resolve differences, over our openness and trust in allowing God to lead us to a conversion of heart and to reconciliation. There is more that could be said about the responsible use of wealth in service to God. About detachment from ‘goods’ of this world — goods that God gives us out of love to draw us closer and more deeply into love with God, that we might revere God and God’s creation, but not take those goods in place of God. But in light of our continuing tragedies and the lack of reverence for human life, created by God in the image and likeness of God, of which they are clear evidence, the most important response we can offer is what St. Paul exhorts us to in his letter to Timothy, when he writes: First of all, I ask that supplications, prayers, petitions, and thanksgivings be offered for everyone, for kings and for all in authority, that we may lead a quiet and tranquil life in all devotion and dignity. This is good and pleasing to God our savior, who wills everyone to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth. And so we will pray to God, as St Paul asks. Pray collectively for those who have suffered violence in all forms against humanity. We will pray collectively for those wounded, those who have lost their lives and their families. And then perhaps most difficult of all, we will pray for those who perpetrated this violence, and all who are tempted to perpetrate violence against humanity. We should be challenged in our prayers to pray for people we don’t want to pray for. We may find the heart that is converted is our own. In all these prayers we place our trust first and foremost in God, who desires to save us, and who “proves his love for us in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8). In this is our act of Faith. In this is our act of Hope.